Beginnings
by Averroes
Summary: Why are there so few JLers from outside the US? Something's happening north of the border that may help change that. Or not. Sorry new to writing summaries, and not much good at it...
1. Beginnings

The funny thing was, I had never been afraid of flying. Oh, I would sometimes worry – I understood all to well the physics involved in getting a plane into the air, and how quickly they could break down. The flight was going from Toronto to Calgary, and had been uneventful to that point. Then the plane shook – hard. There were some shouts of surprise, and some children began to cry. It was an overnight flight, and many passengers were sleeping in the dim cabin. The seatbelt sign lit up. A voice came over the plane's PA.

"Your attention please, we are encountering some turbulence…".

His voice was cut off by a loud 'bang'. The cabin lights that were on went out. The cabin was lit by a temporary glow from the starboard engine, which quickly went away. The emergency lights came on.

I was sitting beside an older woman, both of us on the starboard side of the plane, so we could see out the window. She spoke to me as she stared out the window.

"We've lost that engine. The pilot will have some difficulty controlling the plane now… Do you fly?"

"Do I have a licence? No – I've taken control of a glider, and almost got my glider licence in Air Cadets, but aside from that, always a passenger. Do you fly?"

"Just retired from this airline, actually. I'm flying home from a visit to my grandchildren in Peterborough…"

Her voice was cut off by the return of lighting to the cabin. Outside the window, the engine which had been dark flared to life, the colour of the hot exhaust gases changing with its temperature. It settled to a dull glow, as it had looked before. The voice came over the PA.

"This is the captain. I apologise for any inconvenience. We experienced a problem with one of our engines, caused by the turbulence. Our flight path has been altered to direct us around the disturbance, and as a safety precaution we will land in Regina, were another aircraft will carry you to your destination. This is merely a standard precaution, and is no reason for any concern. Please enjoy the rest of your flight."

"Did you ever have anything like this happen to you?" I asked the woman.

"Yes – I was flying from Heathrow to Dorval, and about two hundred miles from St. John's we lost an engine. Fortunately, it was a 707, and with four engines there's that much more redundancy. We couldn't restart the engine, but we landed safely at St. John's. I'm Marie, Marie Cumberford, by the way."

"James Mackenzie, ma'am."

We were still about 40 minutes from Regina. My seatmate and I continued to talk as we approached that airport. The steward had gone over landing instructions with the passengers, and according to Marie we were likely on final approach to the airport. Then the starboard engine exploded…

Marie screamed, as did other passengers as chunks of hot metal perforated the side of the cabin, the lights going out at the same time. It was easy to feel the plane slew to the right, the result of thrust from the port engine and drag from the remains of the starboard. With the lights out entirely, the dim light of the early morning showed us we were close to a field. Vertically and horizontally. The plane bucked, the pilots' attempts to regain and maintain control clearly felt. Wind screamed as air rushed over the wounded skin of the plane.

In the few seconds during which this all took place, I hadn't looked at Marie. Now I did. Still strapped in, I placed the jacket I was carrying against her side, were blood was rapidly staining her shirt. To this point we had heard nothing from the cabin, probably as a result of a power failure. I looked out the windows again. I could see the lights marking the flight path below us, but not far. I did the only thing I could think of.

"Put your heads down – brace for impact!" I hollered.

I looked out the window again. The ground looked level with us. Realising then that I was probably the only idiot with his head up, I ducked. And the world ended…

At least that's what it seemed like. The noise was overwhelming. Metal tearing, people crying, shouting, screaming. I grabbed Marie, pulling her under me as the plane was dismembered. A tear appeared in the fuselage in front of our seats. Now it bent, buckling on our side, threatening to crush us, and then doing so. And with a scream the plane came apart there, the edges of the battered remains of a jetliner digging massive furrows in the dry earth before they stopped.

For what was probably just a few seconds, but felt much longer, the only noise was the groaning of overstressed aviation grade metal. Then there was a scream from ahead of us, and then pandemonium.

We were crushed between seats and the fuselage. It occurred to me we ought to be dead. But I wasn't, and neither was Marie. She was unconscious. I pushed against the seats, but there were others in them and I didn't want to harm them. I don't know why, but the idea popped into my head to lift up the seat ahead of me. I did, although I only realised the oddness of the situation when I heard bolts breaking, and looking down, saw they were the ones that had been holding the seats in place. But I was able to get us out, so I wasn't about to worry about the matter right then.

I carried Marie out, laying her on the ground about a hundred metres from the wrecked plane. Then I went back, surprised at how I had apparently escaped injury. I helped others carry the injured away from the plane. By now, ambulance, police, and fire and rescue from both Regina and the airport were on hand. Most of the injured had been removed from the plane, with the exception of some trapped near the port wing remains. I went back in as a firefighter hollered a warning that the port wing, invisible from most directions was on fire. Another man was trying to free a young boy from his seat. I yelled a warning to him.

"The wing's on fire – we've got to get these people out of here."

The other man seemed to ignore me – or he was too focussed on freeing the boy. I worked to get a young woman out.

Please – get Brian, my husband." She seemed delirious. That made her luckier than three others around her, all of whom were clearly dead. The man who apparently was Brian was one of these, his head almost separated by a chunk of fuselage. Her seatbelt was jammed. In frustration I heaved on it. It snapped.

"That's reassuring", I thought.

I lifted her out of the seat. The boy was out of the plane, but one man was left, groaning in his seat. I handed off the woman, going back in to help the other rescuer I had seen earlier. I noticed now that he was in a uniform. He was trying to lift the injured man out of his seat, but his legs were pinned. I jumped over another seat lying in the aisle, and grabbed the seat pinning him, pulling it forward. We lifted the injured man out of his seat just as flames entered the cabin remains. I grabbed the other two men and heaved them over the mangled chairs ahead of me. Then I tripped on the same seat I'd earlier hurdled. There was a roar, and then black…

I opened my eyes to see the inside of an ambulance. It felt like we were moving quickly. I asked the attendant what was happening.

"We're headed for the hospital. You've been burned", she replied.

I noted three things in the following order:

The paramedic was rather attractive, without any rings to dissuade me

I didn't feel any pain

I did feel a draft on a part of my body where there wasn't supposed to be one

I realised my clothes were missing parts in back, and I was lying on my front. I groaned. The paramedic thought I was in pain. I waved off her concern. Then I remembered what had just happened. I lay there.

I was left for a while after reaching the hospital. On my arrival, a nurse, evidently doing triage, looked me over before giving a strange look and leaving. When a doctor came to check me, she to had a strange look on her face.

"What's the matter – something wrong?" I asked.

"Are you feeling any pain or discomfort?", the doctor asked.

"No, just what you'd expect having someone nosing around your posterior. Why?"

"Well, while you had your clothes entirely burned through over most of your back, you don't have any visible burns."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Yes, if there indeed wasn't a burn. But there should have been second and third degree burns based on the damage to your clothing. It is just,… peculiar. I would like to keep you overnight for observation, in case we're missing something happening under the skin."

"Okay. If you think that's a good idea."

"I do. My name is Dr. Grant, and I'll come around to check on you later. Nurse, please admit Mr… ", she paused as she looked at my chart, "Mackenzie."

John Stewart, the Green Lantern, was at home in Detroit. Relaxing on the couch, he watched a newscast from Detroit's cross-river neighbour, Windsor, Canada. The first story was about a major plane crash in western Canada. He felt the weight on his heart when he heard the death toll. He had seen crashes before, and dealing with their aftermath could be gruesome.

Suffice it to say my stay in the hospital was physically uneventful. That surprised the doctors. My mental health suffered more. I asked about Marie. Eventually I found out she hadn't made it. Her injuries from the engine explosion had taken her. All told, of a passenger and crew compliment of 136, 23 were killed, with another 97 being injured to one degree or another. Three of these would eventually succumb to their injuries. I was very tired.

My dreams bothered me. Many of them were more nightmares. I discussed the matter at length with Father Lafreniere, my parish pastor. He helped as he could, but he could provide me with little more than comfort and some guidance.

It was in November, a month after the crash, that I had the dream. I had no idea where I was, but a man in armour was standing before me. I looked at my hands, and there were armoured gauntlets on them. I looked at this other man.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Though you do not recognise me, you know me", he replied.

"I do?" I couldn't think of anything more intelligent to say.

Suddenly he raised a sword and struck me. I could not move, but the blow, though it felt powerful, rebounded from me. I looked down and saw armour covering my body.

"You have been given much. Use it. From you much will be expected. Always remember that strength lies only in your faith. Go now." He turned from me.

I awoke with a start. After pulling on some clothes, I walked out of my parent's house, where I was visiting. Across the gravel concession road I walked into a wooded area. Looking at my watch, I saw it was 6:30 am. I looked up at the clouds in the morning sky… and lightning struck an old maple a few feet from me. I stood stupefied as the tree fell towards me, landing atop me and pushing me into the soft soil.

I lay there for a second, realising slowly that I was evidently still alive. How, I didn't know. Then I pushed up…

And threw the tree. It ended up in the opposite position to the one it initially fell in.

I sat up and scratched my head. This didn't make sense.

I wasn't sure what to make of it all, so I decided a little research would be in order – I had to find a doctor. I remembered the doctor who had looked after me, insofar as I needed looking after. I had no idea as to who she was, but… I found her at the Regina Hospital's website, Dr. Catherine Grant – a generalist/family medicine doctor, but interestingly, she was also affiliated with the University of Regina's Faculty of Science. That, I figured, was Providence, largely because I tend to sceptical about coincidence.

I called her the next day, making an appointment to meet her the next Wednesday at the U of R. All I told her was that I was having some side effects, and since she'd dealt with me before, I figured I'd see her for this. I assumed the lack of protestation on her part was tied to a curiosity about my case.

I flew out the next Tuesday, checking into a hotel near the university. The next morning I was at her office there for 10:00 AM. We exchanged pleasantries, and then I got to the point.

"I have something I would like to talk to you about – confidentially."

"OK, what?"

"What do you know…? Is it possible…? What do you know about the idea of a meta-human?"

"Well, I know what I've seen on the news, internet, read a couple of papers on the subject… Why?"

"What do you think of the whole thing?"

"I can't really say I understand any scientific basis for some abilities, but, the ultimate test of their reality is 'does it work'. And their abilities are really there. Why?"

"Something peculiar has happened to me… And I've only noticed it since the crash."

She looked at the wall, thinking. "I was looking at your records from your time at the hospital. Your case didn't make any sense back then. What have you… experienced since you left?"

"How much do you know about what happened at the crash site?"

"I know you helped pull survivors out of the plane, as that was how you ended up burned. But aside from that… and your concern for your friend, I don't know much besides what the paper had in it." She looked at me, her face reflecting her curiosity. "What exactly did happen out there?"

"I was caught in an explosion trying to get people out of the plane, and… I'm not sure what exactly happened, but… as you saw, my clothes burned, but I didn't. I pulled chairs out of the fuselage – ripped the bolts out. And this was what pushed me to call you - last Friday morning a massive tree fell on me – pushed me into the ground. It didn't hurt me. And then I threw it, with one arm."

The doctor raised an eyebrow, looking me over closely. She looked around the office, her eyes finally settling on a cutaway of the ear canal on the wall. Then she looked back at me.

"Let's run a few tests…"

I went through a battery of tests that afternoon, and then went for a walk downtown. After spending a few hours browsing in various bookstores, and then went for a late dinner. By the time I left to walk back to the hotel, it was after 10 PM.

As I walked back, I found myself in a more rundown part of the city. I seemed to remember walking through this area some years before, and it wasn't a particularly safe part of the city. I started to pay a little more attention to what was going on around me. One person was leaning against a wall, seemingly someone who spent a lot of time on the streets. Across the street near the next intersection were two women, either prostitutes or blessed with remarkably bad fashion sense. And ahead of me, three, no four persons, a block and a half away.

I looked at these carefully, as they appeared the most likely to make a nuisance of themselves. They crossed the street, moving toward the corner where the prostitutes stood, the women's postures communicating that they had seen the group of… They strode under a streetlight, and I could see that they were white males. Something about them left me expecting some kind of problem. I picked up my pace slightly, while my training kicked in, urging me into shadowy areas that would leave me nearly invisible at this distance.

One of the men walked ahead of the others, closing quickly on the women, who seemed partly distracted by something on the cross-street. The man closest to the women, wearing some kind of ball cap, said something to the women. Evidently their response was not what he was looking for, since the next thing he did was to take a swing at one of the women, knocking her to the ground as his buddies caught up and attacked the other woman.

I was by now across the intersection from the melee, and apparently unnoticed – the key word being apparently, as the source of the women's distraction hit me with a baseball bat as I launched across the street. This led to another revelation about my unusual medical condition – his bat broke across my shoulder, and I didn't feel any pain. This fact proved equally surprising to my assailant, as instead of falling with a broken collar bone, I turned quickly, grabbed him by the coat, and threw him onto a car parked at the curb. While that took him out of the fight, he had six others with him, three more armed, the others apparently not..

The first on me lashed out with a length of bicycle chain – while it stung, I grabbed it away from him, then grabbed his wrist, and spun around, using his mass to knock over two others. I spared a glance across the street, concerned that the distraction of these knuckleheads was leaving the others free to continue and increase their assault on the women. I was surprised to see the apparent bum I'd noticed earlier taking on the three, who had apparently been joined by another friend or two. My attention was drawn back to my own fight when I was hit on the arm by a pipe.

I turned to face the man wielding it. He was my size, and didn't look like he was all there. He took another swing, which I blocked with the opposite, left, arm. I grabbed the pipe, pulled it out of his hand, and threw it away. He then took a swing at me, and I grabbed his wrist, twisting it, and him, around. His hollering seemed to slow the remaining two who had yet to reach me. I pushed the guy I held to the ground and glared at these two. Evidently they could see this in the light available, as they seemed to decide they had somewhere else to be, and promptly ran off.

I turned again to head across the street, and was surprised to see the apparent 'bum' standing beside four toughs having an unplanned snooze. I took out my cell phone and dialled 911, informing the police of what had happened. Then I walked across the intersection.

The women were apparently unharmed. In the light, I finally got a good look at the 'bum'. Something looked odd about him. He looked native Canadian, but his eyes were alert, his face taught, reflecting the adrenaline likely still moving through his body. "I likely have the same look", I thought. He studied me as I looked him over, neither of us saying anything. I broke the silence.

"Impressive work."

"Thanks. You seemed to be handling things well yourself. You military, police?"

"Former military. I spent time with JTF2. How about you?"

"My mother's American. I was in the Marines."

"Recon?"

"Not quite. Maritime Special Purpose Forces – kind of like Recon, but we were under brigade HQ."

The sound of a siren could be heard, bouncing of the various buildings.

"So what brings you to this part of town?" he asked me.

"Just walking back to my hotel, and ended up here – must have taken a wrong turn."

"Not from here." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"No. Just in town for a few days. So, if you don't mind me asking, why are you dressed like, well, somebody down on their luck?

"Later." He motioned to the police cars pulling up as he said this.

It took an hour before we were finished with the police. When they left, he motioned to an old truck parked beside a warehouse up the street.

"Want a coffee?" he asked.

"Sure." I replied. "My name's James, by the way."

"Tom. Let's go, I'm getting a little hungry."

We drove across the city, heading for the new truck stop on the east side of the city. When we got into the truck, he tossed the overcoat, hat and gloves he'd been wearing into the back seat of the old super cab Ranger. He looked at me from the corner of his eye as we drove.

"You look familiar" he said. "Been in Regina before?"

"Travelled through a few times, and I drove truck out of Saskatoon for a while last year. Came through town a few times then. Only other time was about a month ago – I was on that plane that crashed…"

"That's it! You helped get some of the survivors out, just about got caught when the fuel tanks went up."

I looked at him more closely, and my brain called up an image – the other guy working to free survivors. As this dawned on me, I smiled.

"Now what do you figure the odds are…"

"So, why were we in Canada, anyway? Don't they have their own men in tights?" the Flash asked.

"I don't know of any specifically. But then again, it's not like there's a definitive list." Batman replied, locking in the Javelin's autopilot as they crossed into American airspace. "The ones in the League are there because we knew them, or someone we knew did. So there may be some persons there who could fill the role. But right now, they aren't, so we go north."

"Hey, no problem. Anytime I can enjoy a breakfast of pancakes with real maple syrup and Canadian bacon… Not to mention picking up some Ketchup potato chips. They're great."

"Flash, you closed down the buffet! Did you see the look on the restaurant manager's face? Supergirl, Kara Kent, laughed as she recalled the scene. "I wonder if that'll be the end of 'all you can eat' at that place?"

"Hey," Flash replied, "I…"

"Have a fast metabolism, yada, yada, yada…" Steel cut him off. "What's our e.t.a., Batman?"


	2. Surprises

**_Disclaimer: Shayera Hol, Batman and Flash characters are property of Warner Bros and DC Comics. I'd know if they were mine, since I'd be considerably wealthier. All other characters, plus the story are my property._**

**"So the long** and short of it is your cellular structure is very different from what it ought to be. Your skin is tougher than it has any right to be. It's no wonder you weren't burnt. And that may be why you weren't cut by any debris during the crash." Dr. Grant was explaining the results of the tests she'd done on me.

"I just figured I wasn't hit by anything. I really don't remember whether I was hit or not… Then again, it's been a month and a half. Maybe my memory's going in my old age." I smiled at her. She had beautiful brown eyes, so very gentle.

"Believe me – your skin sample we took looked like Kevlar when we put it under the microscope. And the MRI of your skeleton and musculature… Do you feel any heavier, sluggish, anything like that?"

"Maybe a little – why? Should I?" I had never been small – I passed six feet tall when I was 13, and had topped out at 6'6", and tipped the scales at 300 lbs of mostly muscle. I was curious.

"One thing we weren't able to do yesterday was weigh you. Let's do that now." The scale had been missing the day before, the doctor apparently figuring somebody from physics had taken it. So I stepped on the scale, a digital model that quickly showed my weight.

"Four hundred pounds! That's nuts. I'm wearing the same clothes I was months ago."

She looked at the file she was holding, and then back at me. "You aren't any bigger – your weight gain came entirely from a change in density – of your bones, musculature, pretty much every part of your body where an increase in density would have a positive effect. That, combined with the changes in you at the cellular level, seem to be behind what you're experiencing, although I have no explanation for why these changes happened."

I stood there, probably looking as dumb as I felt.

"I think we have to move on to the next stage of testing." She continued.

"What's that?"

"Physical testing – seeing just what you're capable of."

"Over two spans working for the government, I've learned to be a little careful about sharing information. That would seem to include this sort of testing. Never know whose going to have access…" By this time I was largely talking to myself, and had largely forgotten that I was speaking out loud, until she abruptly brought me back to reality by dropping her briefcase on the desk – loudly.

"Are you insinuating that I would be anything besides diligent in preserving patient confidentially?" She sounded irritated, and this grew to anger. "No, you're not – you're saying it outright!"

I remembered now just why thinking out loud is a very poor idea at times.

She wasn't finished. "I have sworn an oath, I have provided you with all the medical care possible, tested you for something that shouldn't exist, looked after you when any sane person would have told you to go see someone that's actually in the same province as you. But no, when you asked for my help, I got you in, got the use of some busy testing facilities, using up some valuable favours in the process. And you have the nerve, the unmitigated gall, to insinuate I might not be trustworthy."

She had paused. Meanwhile, the only part of my body anyone had ever suggested was super-powered, my brain, vaunted instrument it was, finally had stumbled to life, leading me to the conclusion that a general retreat was in order.

"Ahh, you see, I didn't mean to say that, well, it's not you that I'm concerned about." She was now looking at me rather sceptically, although this indicated a distinct cooling from her previous, utterly pissed off look. I continued. "I have worked for an agency of the government that doesn't, shall we say, have the much respect for such niceties as civil liberties. While I'm not much for conspiracy theories, I am one of those who figured the gun registry would eventually be misused. And I was right. But that's my concern. Believe me when I say I've dealt with these guys, and they don't play by the rules. That's what I was talking about."

She still looked sceptical, but evidently either believed some part of what I was saying, or had decided I was nuts and arguing would only encourage me in my delusions. She looked down at some files lying on the desk, took a breath, and looked me in the eye.

"Assuming you are correct, for the time being, I can see why you might want to minimize the level of documentation on your abilities. But for curiosity's sake, let's go and have you try lifting a few things, just to see what you can do – but don't worry, no documented tests of your maximums. Does that sound reasonable?"

I was just happy to get out of there alive. But I decided to push my luck one more time.

"Sure, with one condition."

"Okay, what's the condition?" She looked at me warily.

"After we're finished, you let me take you to dinner." I finished by giving her my winning smile, or at least that was what I tried to do. I'm not sure what it looked like to her, but…

"I'm your doctor." She hadn't said no.

"No you're not. MY doctor is in an office in Belleville, Ontario – you know, a couple thousand miles away. You are an academic who I consulted with over a matter most _doctors_ wouldn't believe. The fact that you are _a_ doctor, who happened to treat me, in an _emergency_ situation, for a few days, _over a month ago_, is irrelevant to the matter. I am a philosophy professor – I know these things. Indeed, much more relevant are your beautiful smile." By the time I finished, the smile was there and the eyes sparkled. And I felt like I hadn't at any point since high-school. Fifteen years before. Too long.

She gave me a stage sigh, overacting comedically.

"Well, far be it for me to argue with a _professor._"

We ended up going to a maintenance garage, where the groundskeepers and maintenance personnel kept their equipment, including trucks, tractors, trailers, and sundry other items of various sizes. She had me try lifting various pieces of equipment. I had no problem lifting items up to over the 1000 lb. mark. From this point it became a matter of guesstimating the weight, as I tried lifting one end of a truck or tractor, seeking to get a gauge on what my capability was in this area. The most I lifted amounted to around 3000 lbs, when I lifted the front of a big Ford F-550. And I found my bad right shoulder, injured when I was twenty, seemed to have healed.

Dr. Grant, who had by now told me to call her Kate, was impressed before I reached 1000 lbs. She was speechless by the time I finished. My male ego was suitably stoked. She looked at the truck, and then at me, and at the truck again.

"That is impossible, or at least it should be. You lifted almost eight times your weight, and you looked like you weren't maxed out. That shouldn't be possible. From what those tests indicated, I could have seen you going as high as three or four times. This, well, I can't explain it."

"Guess a bowl of porridge for breakfast each day is good for you. What can I say? But anyway, I think it's time to get ready for dinner, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess so. So where and when?"

"It's your city – where should we go?"

"How about McCafferty's, it's downtown near the Legislature buildings."

"Sounds good." I looked at my watch. It was 4:30 pm. "Would 7 work?"

"Definitely. I'll call ahead for a table. Don't be late." She smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I wasn't worried about you dreaming of it. It's the doing that's my concern."

"I'll see you at 7."

**

* * *

When I got back to the rental car, I saw my cell phone, which I had left there, had a message on it. It was from Tom. I wondered what he was calling about. We'd talked for some time the night before. It turned out he was a detective with the Regina Police Service, and usually worked areas such as the one where we'd met, looking out for everything from drugs to gangs to terrorists. Before I left, we'd exchanged numbers, planning to meet for another coffee before I flew home on Saturday. The phone automatically connected to my voice-mail. It seems he needed to meet me first thing in the morning. He left a time and place, and simply asked me to call if I couldn't make it. I didn't see a problem, so I simply drove back to the hotel to get ready for dinner.****

* * *

I arrived at the restaurant at 6:55, and found Kate already seated. She looked beautiful, stunning… After I regained some semblance of sanity, I complimented her.**

"You look beautiful, I mean, even more than usual." Yes, I was suave, like a latter day James Bond. Sure. Well, I was damned-well not going to make too much of a fool of myself. I regained my composure, and after exchanging the usual pleasantries, we ordered. I had a pepper steak, she had a broiled-chicken salad, and we ordered a nice Ontario wine I had heard about on the Food Network.

We talked throughout the meal. She had gone to the University of Alberta to do her medical studies, after doing an undergraduate degree at Brandon. I told her about my adventures in education, travelling from Loyalist to Queens to a year at an American seminary before wrapping things up at Trent. It turned out she had a younger brother who'd gone to Trent, well after my time. She drove an '04 Dodge Ram pickup, with the Hemi, which she liked for its utility and four wheel drive.

"I grew up on a farm near Weyburn – I got used to driving a truck."

"I used to drive an old Ford with a steel flat deck, but right now I've got a Magnum RT, lots of acceleration, and I like the utility of the wagon."

We continued to talk through dessert and coffee, before realising that it was after 10. We ended the evening with a walk down by the legislature, beautifully lit in the late fall evening. Kate shivered.

"What are you doing shivering?" I asked mockingly. "You're from Saskatchewan; this should be more of a problem for me, the wimpy Ontarian."

She laughed, which warmed things up considerably, it seems. Finally we arrived at her truck. She turned to face me.

"It's been a very enjoyable evening."

"Ya. It has been. I don't sup…" She cut me off by kissing me, a full on, holy crow, kiss. After that I didn't know what to say. She did.

"Dinner, tomorrow night, my place."

"Sounds good." My voice reflected the after effects of the kiss, along with surprise at her invitation. She wrote down her address and personal phone numbers, gave them to me, waved, and drove off into the snow which had started to fall. I walked over to my rental Explorer and drove back to the hotel. I watched the news and went to bed, having arranged for a 7 am wake up call.

**

* * *

Batman was doing some research. After Flash's question of that morning, he had decided to run some data searches on the internet and through various Canadian media databases, looking for any signs of metahumans or other potential 'superheroes', as the media had taken to calling Justice Leaguers and the like. Even with the power of the computer in the Batcave, it still took the better part of the day for his specially written search program to crawl, line by line, through data from all across one of the biggest countries on the planet. It was now after midnight, Friday morning, and the computer beeped to inform him that the search was complete, and results had been found that fit within the search parameters.****

* * *

Another computer, in another city was beeping at the same time. A hand reached out, a tap on a key ending the audible alert. Then the hand reached for a phone. Without need of dialling, the phone connected to another office, this one in Ottawa.**

"Yes?"

"We have the search results, sir."

"Good. Send them to Simmons; he'll know what to do."

"No problem, sir."

"And remind him, I want his interpretation by the end of the day."

"Yes, sir."

The phone line went dead. The hand now reached out to hit the 'print' button. While the system did that, he looked at the data. He wasn't an expert in interpretation, but he could clearly see a name on the screen. Tom Longriver.

**

* * *

Tom Longriver stood outside his truck in the Tim Horton's parking lot. The morning sun helped keep him warm in spite of the cold morning air. He'd been up since 5 am, and it was now almost 8. He noted the people coming in and going out, the strong aroma of fresh coffee, along with a fainter scent of donuts and other baked goods, permeating the air. He should have gotten a coffee first, and then waited. Finally he saw the Explorer pull into the lot.**

I saw Tom's old truck as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. He was wearing jeans, a denim jacket and a ball cap with the Swift Current Broncos emblem on it. He was almost as tall as I was, around 6'2" or so. He took off his sunglasses and waved. We met at the door.

"I was a little surprised to get your message. I'd figured we'd meet tonight or tomorrow before I fly out." I reached into my pocket to grab my wallet, hoping I had some cash on me. Tim Horton's stores don't have Interac. Fortunately, I had a few toonies and a five. "What'll you have?" I asked him.

"Regular coffee, extra large."

I turned to the woman at the counter. "Two extra large coffees, one regular, one double cream, triple sugar, and a whole wheat and honey bagel, toasted with butter."

I paid for the order, giving Tom his coffee while I waited at the counter for my bagel. When I had that, we walked outside. Placing the order on the hood of his truck, I unwrapped the bagel and took a bite.

"You got any plans for today?" He was looking at the front page of the Regina Post in the newspaper box.

"Not until tonight."

"Another date with your lady friend from last night?"

That took me by surprise. He must have seen it on my face.

"I was on patrol last night. Saw the two of ya walking. Who is she?"

For a second I wondered if I should answer. But he was a cop, and after their discussions on Wednesday night, well, it was too late to decide not to trust him. And anyway, he already knew her name.

"Dr. Catherine Grant. She's helping me with some research on my 'condition'."

During the four hours spent talking, we compared notes from the crash, and eventually he told me he'd seen what I'd done, and that it wasn't human. When I'd looked surprised, he'd simply said he had the same 'issues'. They hadn't gotten into specifics.

"You got her number?"

"Yes."

"Good – she might be interested in meeting my friend as well. You ready to go?"

"Yeah. Where are we going?"

"You need to follow me out to my place. We're about half an hour from here."

"Okay. Lead on."

I walked over to the Explorer, got in, put the coffee in a cup holder, and was behind Tom on the road within a couple of minutes. We ended up driving north on highway 11, the expressway that links Saskatchewan's capital with its largest city, Saskatoon. About twenty minutes later we were off the 11 and onto a local gravel road, before turning onto a long driveway. Tom parked his truck beside a barn, while I put the Explorer in front of a silo. As he got out of his truck, he waved me towards the old farmhouse.

"Nice place you've got here."

"Thanks. It was in my mother's family since it was homesteaded, and now, well, it's basically mine, although my parents live in the far part of the house."

He pulled open an insulated storm door and pushed open the main door, which opened into a neat kitchen. The smell of coffee dominated the warm air of the house. There was an entrance way from what looked to be a living or family room, and a tall, dark haired woman entered the kitchen through it.

"This is my wife, Liz. This is that fella from Ontario, James Mackenzie."

"Welcome. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you, yes I would." I kicked off my shoes, and Tom led me into the living room.

"I've got someone else I think you should meet. I'll just go get her."

Liz's voice came from the kitchen. "She'll be down in a sec. She needed to mend a shirt."

"Well, I guess I won't get her then."

Liz brought in six coffees, along with containers of cream and sugar. She looked at her husband. "Your parents are coming over as soon as your Dad finishes fiddling with that old tractor, or at 9:30, since your Mom said she was only giving him until then. As she was saying this the sound of the doors opening and closing came from the kitchen. A male voice boomed from the kitchen.

"Tom, that easterner you were talking about here – that who belongs to the new truck outside? Oh, and Liz, can you help an ol' fella and give the missus a shout? I gotta wash up."

"Not in the kitchen sink – use the work sink." Liz hollered to him as she walked out of the room. She came back momentarily, followed by a slim, grey haired woman that couldn't have been more than five feet tall. Tom introduced her. James Mackenzie, Miranda Longriver, my mother."

"And I'm her husband, and his father, though I'm careful about who I let in on that secret. Brian Longriver." He was almost as tall as his son, wearing overalls and a flannel shirt that made him the epitome of a Canadian farmer. Unlike Tom, who was fairly soft spoken, Brian had a booming voice.

"James Mackenzie."

There was a creaking from the stairs. Liz stood up and walked to the doorway to the stairs. Tom stood even as his mother sat down, his father making his way to an easy chair.

The mystery person stepped into view. And my jaw dropped. I'd never seen a woman who looked like her, except on the news about four months before. And I hadn't expected to see one now…

Tom cleared his throat. _"James Mackenzie, this is Miss Shayera Hol."_


End file.
